


i like you best when you're on your knees

by likecharity



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: (sort of), Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Floor Licking, In Public, Kneeling, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:06:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19117696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: James finds kneeling weirdly comfortable. Ed finds this difficult to cope with.Perhaps doing it so often on stage has made James's knees more pliable than they ought to be, like he's broken them in. Or perhaps what he's actually broken is whichever part of the brain makes prolonged kneeling an unpleasant experience for normal people. Either way something's got to be wrong with him, but Ed never says so. Their other friends will rib about it, occasionally, remind him how weird he is when he rejects a perfectly good sofa in favour of kneeling on the carpet while they watch TV. But Ed has never commented on it. He's too afraid of giving himself away.





	i like you best when you're on your knees

**Author's Note:**

> So TECHNICALLY this was for my own prompt because I am obsessed with James being Good At Kneeling, but I was mostly inspired by the comment that elaborated on one of my ideas and suggested him doing it at a party. So thank you to that anon! ♥
> 
> The title is from 'Lick the Pavement' by Garbage again which makes it sound like it's a companion piece to my last fic, but it isn't, it was just too perfect a line to resist.

There aren't many things that Ed dislikes about James, but his tendency to kneel is one of them. Though perhaps it's not fair to say he _dis_ likes it; it might be more accurate to say that he likes it _too much_. James seems to do it far too often, is the thing, and it doesn't make any sense. Ed knows that Recognise wasn't easy for him, that repeatedly kneeling on all those hard stage floors (masochistically refusing to utilise kneepads or some sort of cushion) began to take its toll. But nevertheless it seems to have become a habit, and now, to Ed's great distress, it seems to be a preferred position for him when relaxing.

Ed can't understand how. He gives it a go one evening just to see what it's like, and is not terribly surprised to discover that it hurts like a bitch after a while. He feels stiff and achy, which is just what he expected. Only, if that's the normal reaction, why does James insist on doing it so often? Does he not feel the pain, or does he—Ed tenses at the thought—actually _enjoy_ it? He inspects himself for damage after and the skin is reddened, and that just makes him picture James's bony little knees in a similar state, and then he has to have a wank before he can get to sleep, vaguely annoyed at himself for failing to foresee such an inevitable outcome.

Perhaps doing it so often on stage has made James's knees more pliable than they ought to be, like he's broken them in. Or perhaps what he's actually broken is whichever part of the brain makes prolonged kneeling an unpleasant experience for normal people. Either way something's got to be wrong with him, but Ed never says so. Their other friends will rib about it, occasionally, remind him how weird he is when he rejects a perfectly good sofa in favour of kneeling on the carpet while they watch TV. But Ed has never commented on it. He's too afraid of giving himself away.

It's just—it's one of the few times James actually looks comfortable in his own gangly body. Something weird happens where his movements go all fluid and lovely as he sinks down with a practised ease, all the harsh angles of his body falling into perfect alignment. His spine tall, his feet turned in on their sides, toes pointed towards each other...kneeling _suits_ him. And it makes Ed's heart race and his mind fill up with dirty thoughts that, under normal circumstances, he has the self-control to suppress.

And so he never says a word about it, for fear of letting slip how he really feels when he sees James in that position.

He's gotten reasonably good at ignoring it, over the years, but there are still plenty of occasions when it's almost unbearable. For some reason it's hitting him particularly hard tonight. They're at a house party of a friend of a friend's, and Ed's had just enough wine to be feeling almost dangerously relaxed. He hasn't seen James in a while and there's a bittersweet sort of achy feeling in his chest whenever he looks at him, like longing.

He's sitting on the sofa when James wanders over with a whisky cocktail in one hand, eyeing up the array of snacks laid out on the coffee table. The sofa's full and a few people have made themselves comfortable on the floor already, cross-legged on the carpet, and Ed sees it coming a second before it happens, tries to prepare himself and fails. James gets to his knees, so smooth and graceful about it that the liquid in his glass remains level. He sits back on his ankles, listening to a nearby conversation, taking a sip of his drink.

Ed's tipsy to the point of not being able to stop himself leering; eyes roving over James's body as he straightens up to reach across the table for a crisp. James is utterly oblivious, munching away.

"James," says Ed in an undertone, with a note of urgency that alarms him slightly.

"Huh?" says James, head whipping round in response to the sound of his name.

Now that Ed's got James's attention he has no idea what he was going to say. What could he possibly say? Nothing that's coming to mind is at all appropriate. Instead he finds himself getting up, circling around James, and grabbing a fistful of his shirt at the scruff of his neck. Which is also nowhere near appropriate, he realises, and yet, apparently it's his chosen course of action. James makes a startled sound and Ed distantly asks himself what the hell he thinks he's doing, but yanks anyway, and James rises clumsily, all traces of his earlier grace vanishing as he stumbles to his feet.

And then Ed's gently guiding James out of the room with a hand on the small of his back, and his brain finally catches up with his body and he realises, fully, what he's doing, and then his heart starts beating to some frantic erratic rhythm and he can't look James in the eye. All he knows is he needs to get James alone, but the nearest bathroom has people milling around outside of it and so he finds himself pushing James ahead of him up the stairs, in search of somewhere they'll be less likely to be interrupted.

James isn't saying anything, which must mean he knows what's about to happen. It must mean he _wants_ it, and that makes Ed's heart rise into his throat.

At the top of the stairs Ed strides ahead, trusting that James will follow, and finds a bathroom gleaming temptingly at the end of a long hallway. He tugs James inside by the arm, shuts and locks the door behind them, and then looks into his face for the first time since he grabbed him and dragged him out of the room. James is wide-eyed and breathing fast, unmistakably excited.

"Get on your knees," says Ed, and watches, breath held, eyes unblinking.

James only hesitates for a second, if that. Then he folds beautifully, dropping to the tiled floor, his palms on his thighs and his head bowed. Ed stares, the way he normally doesn't let himself, taking it all in.

"Fuck," he breathes, getting hard so fast he feels lightheaded. Seeing James on his knees is A Lot at the best of times, but like this—just the two of them, James doing it because Ed _told_ him to—it's almost too much. "Have you got any idea how hot that is?" Ed demands.

James shakes his head uncertainly, still looking at the floor.

"Of course you don't. Jesus," says Ed. "You've got no clue, have you? How crazy it makes me?" 

Ed reaches out, tucks two fingers under James's chin and lifts it. James stares up at him in something like wonder, and Ed has to slide his hand up onto his head, get his fingers into his hair. The second he does, it's like a switch flips and once again he's not in full control of himself; his hand cups the back of James's head and pulls him forward roughly, shoving James's face into his crotch. James makes a tiny, muffled sound of surprise, but doesn't struggle or resist. He goes slack, lets Ed do it.

"Feel that?" Ed murmurs. "Feel how fucking hard you've made me?"

He lets out a ragged sigh, head dropping back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to get a grip. He wants to remember this moment, tries to catalogue it in his mind. Distant party noise—the constant thrum of chatter and a muffled bassline. James's mouth hot against the denim of his jeans, breath just beginning to dampen the fabric.

"Want you to suck me off," he breathes, fingers circling on James's scalp.

James nods, and it's a little awkward with the limited control of his head, but it's definitely a nod, and an enthusiastic one at that.

"Yeah, you want to?" Ed pulls James's head back so he can speak. He looks red, flustered. "Say it."

"Wanna suck you," says James, all in a mumbled rush, eyes darting back down at the floor.

"Good boy," says Ed without thinking. God, why's he been holding back all this time, when it was this easy all along? When _James_ was this easy all along? "Go on," he says, "get my cock out, then."

James fumbles with the zipper, fingers clumsy with it like he's too eager to focus. Finally he's easing back the waistband of Ed's boxers, exposing his erection.

"Open your mouth," says Ed quietly, and James does, parting his lips just a little. "Wider," Ed says, and James does, self-conscious but obedient, loosening his jaw. He looks obscene, kneeling there on the bathroom floor with his mouth wide open, waiting for it.

Ed takes his cock in his hand and moves closer, pressing the head of it to the opening of James's mouth, the wet tip resting against James's bottom lip. The touch sends a jolt of pleasure through him, sharp and pure.

"I've thought about this so much," he admits. He can't help feeling the need to explain himself, his rash behaviour, even though James is clearly not complaining. "God, every time I see you on your fucking knees, I just wanna—get my cock in your mouth, make you take it."

James inhales, shaky. "Yeah," he says, voice small, barely there. His breath on Ed's cock makes Ed shiver. "Please. Make me take it."

" _Fuck_ ," says Ed, because what else is he supposed to say to that? All he can do is give it to him.

James opens his mouth wide again, and Ed draws in a lungful of air and makes himself go slow, because he's scared of what he might do if he doesn't keep it together. He eases his cock into James's mouth like he's feeding it to him and James takes it gladly, hollowing his cheeks. Ed fits it in as deep as he dares and swears under his breath as the slick, silken heat of James's mouth surrounds him.

He leaves it there, letting James adjust to the feeling. James looks—content, strangely glassy in the eyes. Like he'd be perfectly happy to just kneel here with Ed's cock filling his mouth for as long as Ed wanted. The thought makes Ed buck his hips without thinking; he thrusts deeper, suddenly, without warning and James gags, reaching out to grab at Ed's thighs, fingers scrabbling against the denim.

"Fuck," says Ed, pulling out. James gasps in a wet breath and guilt churns in Ed's stomach at the sound of it, but there's an enticing tug of arousal there too, hard to ignore. "Sorry."

"No," says James, "that's—" His hands tighten on Ed's thighs, squeezing, and he can't seem to get the words out. "You can..." he tries, gaze flitting about awkwardly.

"Yeah?" Ed prompts, hardly daring to think.

"Yeah," says James. "Just—you know—" he waves a vague hand, "do what you want."

He opens his mouth again as if to emphasise his point, and Ed feels a little faint, has to steady himself against the wall. "Oh my god," he says, and then, rallying, "well, if you insist. Hands behind your back." 

It's actually rather nice to have James clutching at him like that, but he finds he wants him to have less control over the whole situation, and he doesn't know what that says about him but he doesn't care to wonder right now. James seems happy to oblige, anyway, immediately tucking his arms behind him, his shirt tightening across his chest distractingly.

Ed takes a deep breath and then pushes his cock between James's lips, a little less careful about it this time, feeling himself beginning to unravel, and James just stares up at him, eyes wide and trusting. Ed steadies himself and then, with one deliberate snap of his hips, thrusts his dick in deep again. James splutters around it, harsh and wet, and Ed shudders. He eases out, lets James catch his breath.

"You're sure this is okay?"

"Nngh," says James thickly, and then swallows. He's swaying slightly and his cheeks are bright, his eyes shining.

"Words would be useful," chides Ed.

James rolls his eyes. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Ed echoes, mostly to wind him up.

James nods, looking frustrated. "Ed, just—"

"All right," says Ed wickedly, cutting him off by plunging his cock back into his mouth.

He holds James firmly by the back of the head and guides him on and off his cock, hips rocking gently in tandem. They're shallow thrusts, at first, that James can just about handle, but they're unrelenting and Ed can feel the saliva quickly gathering at the corners of James's mouth, making everything wetter and messier and more thrilling. All James can do is let him—let him fuck his mouth, let him _do what he wants_.

Ed forces James's head down further, and he feels his cock reach James's throat; it spasms against him, tight and hot, and then James's head bobs back instinctively at the intrusion; Ed's grip loosening enough to let him draw back. He coughs wetly, but obeys Ed's orders to keep his hands behind his back, not wiping his mouth even though it's smeared and glistening with spit. Ed gives him a questioning look and James merely nods again, already opening his mouth to take him back in, eager tongue chasing the taste. Ed winds his fingers roughly through James's hair and shoves him back down, too far gone to feel bad about the violence of it as he pulls James's mouth on and off his cock, pushing deep enough each time that James is close to choking on it, his cheeks crimson, his eyes screwed shut and beginning to leak tears.

And yet when Ed eases off to pant out a warning that he's about to come, James's only response is to take his cock back between his lips, suckling urgently, so Ed slides in deep and holds him still with his curls tangled around his fingers, moaning low and desperate as he comes right down James's throat. James sputters and twitches but takes it all; when Ed lets him go he's swallowing frantically like he's trying not to let any of it spill out of his mouth.

"God. Fucking hell," Ed says appreciatively, once he's recovered enough to make words.

"Yeah," James gets out, and his voice is shot. He looks an absolute mess, and Ed can't take his eyes off him; his blotchy wet face, his swollen lips and red-rimmed eyes. _I did that,_ thinks Ed, staring in disbelief. 

James leans back, chest heaving as he draws in ragged breaths, and Ed notices that he's hard, the crotch of his trousers bulging. For a moment he doesn't know how to react, his mind momentarily stunned blank by what's just happened. He knows he wants to see James's cock, wants to see him come, but—he also knows he doesn't want to get down on James's level, and he's not ready to see him get up again either. He's greedy for more of this, more of James kneeling at his feet.

"Get yourself off," he says eventually, decisively. "Wanna watch you."

"Ed..." says James. His voice sounds all scratchy.

"What? Too shy?" Ed teases. "Don't you need it? Looks like you need it pretty badly from where I'm standing."

James makes a vague, broken noise, shifting slightly on his knees, and then gives in, getting his fly open and shoving down his pants, movements hurried and desperate. Ed wants to tell him to slow down, that they've got all the time in the world, only they _don't_ —the constant sounds of the party drifting up from downstairs won't let him forget that. Once he sees James's cock all he can do is stare dumbly as James gets his hand round it and starts to stroke himself. He's efficient about it, eyes squeezed shut, hand moving so fast on himself it's almost clumsy, clearly so conscious of being watched, scrutinised, _desired_.

"Fuck, you look so good," Ed tells him. "Love seeing you like this."

That seems to make things worse—James makes a sort of pained noise and squirms, his rhythm faltering. Suddenly Ed wants to take over, the urge to touch him so powerful he almost can't resist (and it's such a good opportunity for some gentle mockery, too; he could tell James he's not doing a very good job, ask him if he needs some help...) but he tells himself there'll be plenty of time for that later. He recognises that cruel little part of him that enjoys discomfiting James, flustering him, and he fixes James with an intent stare, murmuring some more words of approval just to watch him squirm again.

Despite James's obvious self-consciousness, it doesn't take long. A few more quick jerks of his fist and then he's doubling over as he comes, bracing his other hand on the floor, fingers splayed wide. Ed steps back so he can see it—a splatter onto the tiles and then the rest dribbling over his fist, James trembling and breathing hard. It almost gets on Ed's shoe, and Ed feels a wild, senseless thrill at the thought.

After a moment James straightens up, dutifully, and Ed can't help the weird little shiver he feels as James draws himself up tall again for Ed's benefit, like he's awaiting further instruction. James glances shyly up at him and drags his clean hand through his hair, and Ed can tell that it's not so much an attempt to neaten it (surely futile, given its current state), more of a nervous habit. 

"You've made a mess," says Ed, softly, hoping that his tone hits just the right balance of sweet and scolding. "We can't have that. I think you should probably clean it up, don't you?"

He knows this might be going a bit far, but he says it anyway, because things have escalated so dramatically tonight that he's losing the ability to keep himself in check. James is just looking at him questioningly, not reluctant exactly, but hesitant to act until he knows for sure what's being asked of him; wary of doing the wrong thing, perhaps afraid of betraying some imagined depravity. He makes a minuscule, uncertain movement, a twitching of muscles.

"Yes, I mean with your tongue," Ed explains with an easy smile, and he's relieved to see that he's read James right, because James no longer dithers, instead toppling forwards onto all fours immediately as if relieved by the clarification (or perhaps, Ed imagines, grateful for the permission to do something so dirty).

He lowers himself to the spill at Ed's feet, forearms flat to the floor. Ed moves aside, tilting his head just in time to see—quick as a flash—James's tongue darting out, pink against the white tile as it gathers up the splash of come before disappearing back between his lips. His face is flushed dark as he swallows and this time he doesn't straighten back up; stays there awkwardly hunched on the floor instead. His head nudges Ed's ankle, ever-so-gently, and then he tries to pull himself up and only gets halfway. He shuffles forward and rests his head more heavily against Ed's leg, as though he needs comfort, and Ed feels a flood of tenderness and reaches down to stroke his hair reassuringly. James exhales, nuzzling at the denim of Ed's jeans.

"You're perfect," Ed hears himself say quietly, combing his fingers through James's hair, holding him close.

"Don't," says James, in a tight, overwhelmed voice.

Once again Ed's body seems to move before his mind processes the action. He finds himself crouched on the floor, manhandling James upright, cradling his hot face in his hands and pulling him in for a kiss, not caring in the slightest about where his mouth has been. James sort of moans against his lips, kissing him back eagerly, hungrily, like he's wanted this for a long time. He opens his mouth once again and Ed deepens the kiss, holding him steady.

After a little while Ed half-heartedly attempts to extricate himself, conscious of how long they've been absent from the party, but James just dives back in, fingers tugging pleadingly at the back of Ed's shirt. Ed feels himself sink back into the kiss, and eventually James is the one to pull away, looking bashful but satisfied. Ed trails his fingers down to the back of James's neck, rubbing soothingly.

"We should probably go back down before anyone comes looking for us," he suggests, gently, and James nods. He still looks wrecked, but less overwhelmed than before. "You good?"

"Mmm," says James, and then coughs. "Throat hurts, though," he croaks, with a little twitch of a smile.

"Yeah, I bet. Sorry about that."

"I was asking for it," says James wryly.

"Kneeling all the time isn't asking for it," Ed points out, "I'm just a pervert."

"Oh," says James, going pinker. "No, I meant when I literally asked for it."

"Well yes, there was that," agrees Ed with a chuckle, patting James on the back. "Do you think you can get up?"

James gives him a slightly scathing look, but he is a little shaky when he gets to his feet. When Ed offers an arm, though, he shrugs him off, stepping towards the sink to wash his hands briskly. He splashes his face, too, flicking a glance at the mirror, and when he notices how wild his hair's gone, he makes a face and brings a damp hand up to try and tame it.

"No, leave it," says Ed firmly, and James freezes. "You look good like that. Besides, I _want_ people to wonder if you've just been sucking me off in the bathroom."

And they _will_ , with James this dishevelled—even if they managed to make his hair look normal again, there's still his bruised-looking lips, his ruined voice, the glazed look in his eyes. Not to mention the blush still staining his cheeks, making him look extremely guilty. Ed expects James to argue, to be too embarrassed and uptight not to try and cover their tracks, but he realises now just how weirdly relaxed James seems. He's holding himself differently, like his limbs have gone all loose.

"Okay," he says simply, and it hits Ed like a punch to the gut.

Once they've composed themselves somewhat and reached the bottom of the stairs, Ed stops James short with a hand fisted in the back of his shirt.

"Right," he says, tugging James close to speak low into his ear, "I'm going to get myself another drink, and I want you to go back in there and kneel back down like nothing's happened. We can talk about all this later, yeah?"

James shudders against him then gives a quick, sharp nod, and they part ways.

Ed heads for the bar set up in the kitchen and pours himself another glass of wine, then ambles back into the living room, attempting to exude an air of total nonchalance though his heart is beating double-time. He's pleased to see James has followed the order and is kneeling by the coffee table once again. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so he guesses everyone is just being polite and carrying on as they were. It looks like James has managed to casually join in with the conversation, though Ed knows that he must be burning up with shame on the inside, wondering what everyone must think.

Ed wanders over, and he's approaching from behind, so James doesn't know he's there until he's right beside him. Ed takes a casual sip of his wine and smiles innocently round at everybody, and then he places a hand lightly on James's head, and ruffles his hair. He feels a little shock go through James's body, feels him snap to straight-spined attention.

He's going to have a _lot_ more fun with James's kneeling habit in the future.


End file.
